


Dinner at Ano's

by HollyisShort



Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer
Genre: A lot of googling seaweed to find names for mama and papa Kelp, Fic Exchange, Kelp brothers being great boys, Original Character Death(s), Sibling Bonding, i guess, there is a small reference to death in here fyi but nothing long or heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyisShort/pseuds/HollyisShort
Summary: Circumstance has made the Kelp brothers two very different fairies but the mechanics of forcing a workaholic sibling with an attitude problem out of their office into the wide world is universal.A fic for NeverOutOfTime!
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11
Collections: 🌊Artemis Fowl summertime fanfic exchange  🌊





	Dinner at Ano's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NeverOutOfTime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverOutOfTime/gifts).



> Hello and welcome to the first fic I have written in a long time! This is a little exploration into the Kelp brothers, some conjecture into their differences, and also hopefully some wholesome interaction between our two favourite criminally underused brothers. I have come up with names for their parents, as I couldn't seem to find reference to their names anywhere.
> 
> This fic is for NeverOutOfTime and is based on their prompt- I sincerely hope you enjoy this! 
> 
> -HollyIsShort

Grub Kelp came as a surprise to most fairies with any kind of acquaintance to his illustrious brother Trouble. The family resemblance was obvious. Of course, Grub was much slighter but the brothers shared the wide, purpleish eyes of their father as well as his bold, square jaw and their mother’s dark hair, which flashed with tinges of auburn in certain lights. Yes, the Kelp brothers were undoubtedly related but how this irritating middle-management type, with his penchant for pedantic complaints and The Easy Life could have been cut from the same cloth as brave, strong, fairy-of-action Trouble Kelp was a source of endless bafflement. And there was barely fifty years between them- practically twins!

It had started early in life.

Trouble had been raised on his father’s heroism. Sargassum Kelp was a hotshot Recon Major, with an exemplary record in the field and several medals of gallantry for various daring escapades. Trouble hung on his every word, mind alive with tales of the surface and the unique camaraderie of the LEP.

_“Here comes Trouble!”_ Sargassum would laugh, as the little boy approached, toy blaster in his hand, dispatching invisible enemies with great aplomb. He would bend to pick up his son, spinning him through the air to squeals of delight. _“You’re flying lad, see! Just like I do on the surface. When you’re older, we’ll get you a pair of wings and fly over the old country together.”_

Trouble was barely seventy when a shuttle crash took Major Kelp and seven of his officers. Grub was only twenty years old: barely out of nursery. At his manhood ceremony four months later, Trouble had insisted on his name change. A fitting tribute, he thought, and a constant reminder of the man he had lost.

_“You’re just like him.”_ His mother had said afterwards, eyes blotchy and handkerchief in hand. Trouble wasn’t sure if she thought that was a good thing.

Milfoil Kelp had always been a cautious woman but her husband’s death served only to heighten her fears. It was too late to reign back Trouble, already a rising star in The Academy with a bright, dangerous future ahead of him. He’d had his heart set on Recon since he could walk and, helped along by no small amount of natural talent, had worked hard to achieve his goal. But her Grub, her tiny boy, him she could keep safe.

So, Grub was raised in cotton wool, raised not to be like his shining hero of an older brother, but to be cautious, unremarkable, and safe. Milfoil would write to school about how delicate her boy was, how he shouldn’t be allowed to exert himself to such an extent that Grub took on what she believed. A sensitive, spoilt boy, but one who idolised his brother and who, despite her best efforts, still wanted to join the LEP.

The ensuing years had seen the Kelp brothers through all manner of mishaps and disagreements as Trouble rose through the ranks and Grub determinedly did not. In the midst of preparation for the return of Hybras and the Demons who resided there, the scandal of Commander Ark Sool’s plan for The People’s lost family had broken and, amidst the chaos, Trouble was promoted to the coveted position of Reconnaissance Commander, the youngest fairy ever to hold the position, and by a staggering two centuries.

So, on this evening, Grub was doggedly attempting to extract his newly-promoted Commander Brother out of his dingy office for what he suspected would be Trouble’s first proper meal in some time. Grub had noted the sim-coffee cups brimming over in what must be a faulty recycler as he entered the room.

“You should get that fixed you know,” Grub scolded to the top of his brother’s head- Trouble was bent over what would be a huge stack of paperwork, if the fairy folk still used paper. “You can email me.”

Grub had recently come into his own promotion of sorts and was now in charge of identifying and logging maintenance issues in Police Plaza and dispatching the relevant operative to fix whatever problems had arisen. It was nice to be doing something that felt useful, plus his new office was close to the canteen.

“Trouble?” The erstwhile Commander still hadn’t looked up from his tablet and e-pen. Grub noticed a rumpled blanket on the chair in the corner and raised an eyebrow. “Have you been sleeping here?”

Trouble finally sat up, levelling his brother with a glare.

“What do you want Grub?”

“I came to see if you wanted to get dinner,” Grub offered, not allowing Trouble’s tone to goad him into becoming defensive. “I thought maybe we could catch a movie afterwards.”

“Maybe,” Trouble grunted, after a beat. He moved to sign another form on the screen in front of him, looking away from his brother.

“We could hit up Spud’s?” Grub suggested; he had been trying to inject a bit more of what he considered to be ‘hip and cool language’ into his conversation in the hope that it might give him just a few more points with the squad fairies in the locker room. So far his campaign to ‘hit up the neat bars of Haven’ had not been successful.

“I would literally rather eat my own hands,” came the acidic retort.

“Alright” Grub pouted. “Commandership elevated your taste has it? Time was you and I would dine like kings on those suspicious milkshakes.”

Trouble huffed.

It was true, the brothers had spent many a happy adolescent afternoon sent out with a couple of silver coins and strict instructions not to come back before dinner. It had become a routine: hop on the stick into the centre of town, loiter around Police Plaza in the hope of seeing some Actual Recon Officers or even better, witness some crime they could intervene in and somehow be branded heroes of the city with automatic promotions into the elite squad. _No need for academy or initiations for you, boys,_ LEP Commander Root would say. _The squad needs fairies like you, welcome to Recon._

Of course, there were never any convenient crimes and even if there had been, a cocky teenager and his tiny, sniffling kid brother was hardly going to strike fear into the hearts of Haven’s local ne’er-do-wells. The perpetually irate Commander Root was certainly not going to be handing out any free passage to Recon either. So, after another hard day of theoretical crime fighting, Trouble would walk Grub round the corner to the infamous fast food outlet and they would gorge themselves on the large milkshake (mint for Trouble and banana for Grub) and fries their silver coin each would buy.

“Come on Trub,” Grub wheedled. “You know you’ll enjoy it once you’re out.”

“Yeah well, got a lot on haven’t I?” Trouble said, letting the detested shortening of his name slide to shorten the conversation.

“Yeah well, you’ve got to have a break.” Grub replied, mimicking Trouble’s tone.

“Yeah well, Commanders don’t have breaks”

“Yeah well, Corporals do and I want to take mine with you. Mummy said you have to look out for me.”

“Yeah about a hundred years ago!” Trouble thundered. Grub could get under his skin like no fairy under the world, including that infuriating centaur and his tin foil hatted underlings.

“For Frond’s sake!” Grub attempted a little thundering himself. “Cut the macho crap Trub, I’m trying to invite you out for a meal to get you out of this box of an unventilated office for a bit of company and maybe- who knows- just a little bit of fun? And here you are getting all aggressive with me!”

Silence ensued, Trouble stared intently at a knot in the sim-wood of his desk until he could bear the quiet no longer.

“Sorry.” He muttered.

“Yeah, me too”

More silence. But Grub was not about to give up the job just yet.

“How about Ano’s?” Grub ventured, filling his voice with unnecessary enthusiasm, “I’ve heard they’ve redone the decor so it feels like you’re inside a sea anemone, plus you’ve always loved their yellow beetroot hummus.”

“I don’t know Grub,” Trouble rubbed the side of his face with one hand. He appreciated his brother’s persistence- not that he would tell him so, but the weight of command had been lying heavy on him for some weeks. To tell the truth he was exhausted and struggling, missing the thrill of field work and the sweet taste of surface air, dreading the endless council meetings, and terrified at the decisions he was making, decisions that were critical to the survival of Haven and her citizens.

On another day, in another year, Trouble might tell Grub this, might allow himself to break down and lament his situation while his brother awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. It would be cathartic but not currently worth the inevitable phone call that would follow.

_“Hello sweetie,”_ his mother would start carefully, studiously avoiding using his chosen first name. _“Your brother tells me that you aren’t feeling yourself.”_

Perhaps dinner would be a good second option. Mindless conversation and hot food not served by the persistently aggravating sprite that usually staffed the LEP canteen.

“Come on, Trouble,” Grub persisted. “You look like you could do with it. We can go and get some nice food and I can drive you round the bend. It’ll be just like old times.”

Trouble pursed his lips.

“Do I really look that bad?”

Grub clucked his mouth in mock disgust as he looked his brother up and down with a scarily uncanny impression of the indomitable Milfoil Kelp. “Bags under your eyes, un-ironed tunic, and I’d put good money those socks aren’t fresh on today.”

Trouble smirked in spite of himself.

“Remember when you told the entirety of Retrieval One that you were ironing my tunics?”

Trouble had resented that particular remark for weeks. The Fowl Siege had happened less than a year after Grub had graduated into the LEP and Trouble had put his neck on the line to get his little brother the leg up into Retrieval he needed to get off the mind-numbingly dull traffic night shifts he’d been posted to. The ironing had come as part of Grub’s “real life adult training”, as Trouble had branded it. Trouble had insisted that Grub move into his modest flat after he graduated to get him away from their mother’s incessant mollycoddling, mollycoddling which had resulted in Grub reaching his manhood ceremony with little to no practical life skills. After teaching Grub the sacred art of vole curry and a few other staple meals, they had moved on to housework responsibilities. These were adhered to on a strict bi-weekly rota, drawn up by Trouble with military efficiency on some surprisingly domestic stationary. Sure when it was Grub’s week to iron, it saved the dashing Captain a few minutes in the morning, but really it was he that was doing Grub the service.

“Good one that, wasn’t it.”

“Yep,” Trouble laughed suddenly, uncoiling from his slouch and finally giving Grub his full attention. “Not quite as good at your targeted complaint campaign though”

Grub grinned. “Come on, you have to take some of the credit for that.”

After the aforementioned Fowl Siege, Grub had rounded on Trouble at the shuttle port.

“Was I really only on that mission because you requested me?” Grub’s lip had wobbled accusingly as he glared at his older brother.

Trouble had spent the tense shuttle flight back to Haven with an obliviously slumbering Chix Verbil drooling on his shoulder. The taste of bile and defeat still cloyed in his mouth and the after affects of the big Mud Man’s sedative made his mind throb and his body ache. He had been in no mood for games.

_“Yes,”_ he had snapped. _“You don’t honestly think a rookie traffic officer would be called up to a high stakes mission with Retrieval One without someone on the inside do you?”_

Grub had boiled over with anger.

_“Well I didn’t ask you to,”_ he had snapped back, punctuating his frustration with a little push, a petty move that would usually bounce off Trouble. On that day, however, the fatigue and surprise at his brother’s anger had caused the Captain to stumble back. _“I don’t want you to!”_

_“You don’t want me to?”_ Trouble had been incredulous. _“I’m giving you your fast-track into Recon. Do you want to spend the next two decades on traffic like I did?”_

_“Yes! I do! And then I want to graduate to a safe desk job somewhere below ground. I don’t want to get into Recon, Trouble.”_

Trouble had gaped, at him, mouth beginning to form the shape of a reply but never getting to the sound. Then someone had called his name and he had turned and walked back towards his Recon comrades, ready for a short debrief. There was much to be picked over but that could be thrashed out in the coming days. Right now, the whole squad was running on twenty-four or more hours without sleep. Even Root was too drained to shout at anyone.

They hadn’t spoken about the outburst, but when Trouble arrived home, Grub had ordered a takeout and had an old human Western queued on the entertainment system. Trouble had fallen asleep within the first ten minutes and snored obnoxiously through the entire movie.

After that, Trouble had stopped personally requesting Grub for missions but the Kelp name was still getting him into squads sent on the most unappealing and downright dangerous of assignments. So, the brothers had concocted a plan: make Grub into enough of an annoyance to be sidelined in the cosy office he so craved.

It had begun slowly. Grub would submit a complaint and Trouble would long-sufferingly forward it to the relevant department:

_‘I’ve grazed myself on the sharp edges of the canteen chairs and I demand compensation.’_

_‘The vending machine outside Internal Affairs has a dangerously snappy door. It nearly took my arm off.’_

_‘There’s a carpet tile on the fourth floor that’s ever so slightly curled at the corner- someone could easily trip on that.’_

This continued for several years until the resentment of the LEP’s general upper management grew to such an extent that they decided to punish young Corporal Kelp by removing him from active duty and placing him in an office with an ornamental job title and a lot of paperwork.

Mission accomplished.

“So?” Grub raised an expectant eyebrow. “You can’t let me walk out of here by myself- I might be mugged, and think of the complaint I could file then. Neglect from the Commander himself- it would look good. I might even be able to take to the press, imagine that, me on a talk show.”

“Alright,” Trouble decided, rolling his eyes. “Ano’s it is.”

“Great,” Grub said, smiling sweetly at his brother. “Do you have the fare for the Stick? I’ve left my wallet at home.”


End file.
